GIFT  OF 


7 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


3Uimflam, 


fltrL 


LIONEL  JOSAPHARE  and 
BEATRICE     VAN     SLOPE 


{Jif  jfflom? 


VOL.  I  NO.   4 

Sent  postpaid,  25  cents  a  copy;  subscription  for 
six  numbers,  $1.     Address  all  communications  to 

LIONEL  JOSAPHARE, 
126  Post  Street,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


CONTENTS. 

Stanzab  by  Lionel  Josaphare ,    .      .     page  5  et  seq. 
The  Distressing  Vicissitudes  of  a  Lady  in 
Sky-high  Society,  by  'Beatrice  Van  Slope,  page  13 
Love-chant,  "  "       "         "      17 

Californian  Hymn  to  the  Sun,  anonymous,  "  21 
Poets  and  Critics,  by  'Beatrice  Van  Slope,  "  23 
LastWis!)  "  ^  -f  "  "  29 

Wen  It h.  "  '«        '.*        "      31 


1     FLIMFLAM/ 


SOCIETY  GIRL^ 

~-rr= _jr:~jr-^----:rr.rrrrr-rrr=.— ;^,J  A 


BY 


3f\ 


LIONEL     JOSAPHARE 

AND 
BEATRICE     VAN    SLOPE 


Published  by 
A.   M.   ROBERTSON,    SAN   FRANCISCO. 

The  GASKILL   Press. 


Copyrighted,  1903, 
By  A.  M.  ROBERTSON. 


fl 


SUtmtiam,  §»owt    (itrl 


459869 


JFUmflaut,  gwtrt    (Sir!. 


pLIMFLAM  has  lived.     The  glorious  girl  is  dead. 
*      The  florist  and  the  keeper  of  the  hearse 
Have  shrined  her  sleep  and  garlanded  her  head 
For  her  last  function.     Be  none  heard  to  curse. 
But  the  torch-bearing  maker  of  the  verse, 
Extol  the  passing  ship,  once  fraught  with  sweets, 
That  with  sweet-giving  earth  must  now  commerce 
And  bear  their  viewless  tides  with  ghostly  fleets. 
Pale  friend,  surviving  friendship  recollects 
The  warmth  which  your  unanswering  hand  rejects, 
Your  smile's  caprice,  the  satire  in  your  eye, 
Your  instant  pout,  the  feminine  effects, 
Your  tiny  voice,  from  which  the  wit  would  fly, 
And  love  that  rued  till  you  forsook  the  day, 
Stopped  your  heart's  music  and  in  silence  lay. 

No  more,  in  life's  propinquity  found  equal, 
Shall  we  explain  the  world  which  gave  us  place; 
Yet  shall  these  margins  frame  no  weeping  sequel 
Unto  a  friendship  greater  than  love's  grace. 
Content  to  die,  she  turned  her  lessening  face 
From  the  rant  laughters  of  the  fools'  emprise; 
Had  laughed  with  them,  and  when  she  illed  apace, 
Smiled  with  her  lips  and  suffered  with  her  eyes. 
Rare  spirit,  not  in  painful  days  I  paint  her, 
But  in  the  spritesome  life  she  lived  acquaint  her. 
Songs  wrote  she,  of  wee  men  in  little  ways  — 
Little,  and  cannot  saint  nor  help  unsaint  her. 
Not  strategic  with  passion's  makeshift  phrase, 
She  wrote;  for  when  with  sweet  occasion  prest, 
She  took  her  pen  and  quickly  all  confessed. 


6  JPlunflaiit.  &arirty  (fctrl. 

DEATRICE  Dora  Flimflam  G.  Van  Slope, 

*-*  Daughter  of  J.  Van  Slope,  the  Iron  King, 

And  niece  unto  the  Emperor  of  Soap, 

Likewise  his  brother  of  the  Copper  Ring, 

Sister  of  Daisy,  who  was  wed  last  Spring 

To  Cedric  Alyn,  who  divorced  her  soon 

And  married  Villamain,  who  used  to  sing 

But  left  Grand  Opera  for  her  honeymoon,  — 

Well,  Flimflam  lived  with  banners  on  Nob  Hill, 

Dressed  so  superb  she  made  the  crowd  stand  still, 

Rode  in  a  blue  barouche  with  swarthy  horses, 

That  cost  three  thousand  plunks,  (I  saw  the  bill) 

Ne'er  ate  at  dinner  less  than  fifteen  courses, 

Wrote  poetry,  chewed  gum,  golfed,  slanged  her  caddy, 

And  went  to  church  on  Sundays  with  her  daddy. 

That  name:  "Beatrice"  was  her  Proper  Noun 

As  spelt  by  Fame  for  signal  and  affair; 

"Dora"  looked  modish  once  when  written  down, 

And,  liking  its  effect,  she  left  it  there. 

Her  chum-girls  called  her  "Flimflam;"  "G."  was  bare 

Of  record  or  intent  save  that  'twas  G. 

Then  came  "Van  Slope,"  of  which,  as  told  elsewhere, 

From  her  true  sire,  we  trust,  she  was  feoffee. 

Even  as  her  name  exceeded  usual  need, 

Her  wit  went  wayward  when  she  gave  it  speed. 

Freaksome  in  heart  and  hand  as  twenty  elves, 

Her  wealth  caused  women  to  forget  the  deed 

E'en  as  her  words  made  men  forget  themselves. 

A  million  thrills  they  had  in  her  survey, 

Or  were  dead  nothings  when  she  went  away. 


JFlimfliUii.  tSwU'Uj  (£trl.  T 

Tout  au  contraire,  the  girl  was  never  a  flirt: 

For,  privileged  to  mobilize  her  eyes, 

How  could  she  help  it  if  those  glances  hurt 

Whene'er  she  gave  her  beauty  exercise? 

Her  beauty  —  ah!     Now  let  the  Muse  arise 

To  seemingly  preposterous  expressions; 

But  let  that  Muse  be  watched  by  one  more  wise, 

Lest  ardor  trespass  beauty's  rare  possessions. 

And  yet  'tis  author's  license,  nay,  his  duty: 

Dispelling  the  habilaments  of  beauty, 

And  when  false  covering  defeats  the  eye, 

Blow  embers  in  the  rubbish  cold  and  sooty. 

And  yet  the  blushing  critic  would  say  "Fie," 

Should  truth  usurp  the  fashion's  false  demesne 

And  dream  of  beauty  'twixt  the  seen  and  unseen. 

Flimflam  was  small,  (too  small  for  melodrama) 

Full-dressed,  full-jeweled,  fit  for  fads  and  styles, 

Slim-hipped,  but,  like  the  coast  of  Alabama, 

She  was  more  than  could  be  set  down  in  miles. 

It  would  be  vain  conceit  to  rate  her  smiles; 

And  eyes,  'twere  better  artlessly  admire  — 

Eyes  that,  like  bluebirds  in  the  golden  files 

Of  tress  and  curl,  added  their  trembling  fire. 

Fashion's  accoutrements  upon  her  sat, 

Nor  standing  room  left  one  more  frill  thereat  — 

A  hundredweight  of  girl  and  fifty  pounds 

Of  dress  and  jewelry,  hair-pomp  and  hat; 

Which  froth  of  style  blew  free  from  beauty's  mounds, 

That,  crushed  for  space,  divulged —  0  Muse,  give  o'er: 

'Twere  impoliteness  to  describe  her  more. 


a  JFUmflam.  $nririu  C&irl. 

Beholding  Flimflam,  I  beheld  it  odd 

(Yet,  turning  toward  the  world,  not  strange  at  all) 

That  flowers  of  love  sprung  fragrant  where  she  trod, 

Save  that  the  heart  she  loved  she  cculd  not  thrall. 

Wildly  her  wisdom  with  her  love  would  brawl 

That  she,  since  love  could  not  find  love  in  one 

Made  manifest  in  fancy's  choicest  call, 

Should  let  the  calf  in  his  own  meadow  run. 

If,  dreaming  near  the  full-rigged  rose,  one  tear. 

In  forming,  made  the  garden  disappear, 

How  could  grief's  flood  have  Winter  every  season 

And  make  Spring's  animation  seem  not  near! 

Therof  imparting  to  herself  no  reason, 

And,  blenching  from  the  parlor's  laughing  band, 

In  verse  oft  drifted  out  of  sight  of  land. 

If,  to  the  access  of  her  inmost  love, 
Beatrice  let  an  ugly  world  inquire, 
'Twras  in  her  verses  dreaming  of  above 
Being  lit  with  what  she  saw  not  in  the  mire. 
And  if  'twere  asked  what  splendors  could  inspire 
A  man  to  burn  his  heart  in  other  places, 
When  Flimflam's  beauty  was  for  him  afire, 
No  fitting  answer  the  inquirement  graces. 
With  what  might  wras  his  own  love  reimbursed 
That  he  blessed  one  and  left  the  other  curst, 
Smiled  on  one's  prayer  and  laughed  at  other's  wit? 
Perhaps  'twas  that  he'd  loved  the  less  heart  first. 
Deep  in  what  nether  joy  her  thoughts  could  flit, 
They  found  no  biding-place  or  landmark  dome, 
But  in  her  sorrow's  vaults  thev  made  a  home. 


Jftimftam,  £wirtu  (£trl.  0 


'Twas  since  her  first  sweet  visit,  when  the  Muse 

Had  taught  the  maiden's  poet-soul  to  climb, 

And  kissed  her  sweeter  scarlet  to  confuse 

Her  brain  with  bliss  and  make  her  talk  in  rhyme, 

That  Flimflam,  pensive  with  the  fondest  crime 

That  e'er  found  privilege  in  a  woman's  breast, 

Made  wildered  passion  keep  poetic  time, 

And  in  her  verse  her  wasteful  love  confessed. 

O  love  that  in  most  noxious  scorn  can  live, 

Or  to  our  greatest  feats  a  greater  give, 

Why  are  your  wishes  bodily  and  real 

And  your  attainments  dim  and  fugitive? 

On  such  as  Flimflam,  lost  in  the  ideal 

Of  love  and  poetry,  pour  forth  thy  wine, 

To  feed  the  fiends  that  else  on  tears  will  dine. 

Beatrice  Dora  Flimflam  G.  Van  Slope, 
Fine-framed,  lank-armed  and  little  to  be  seen, 
Did  long  with  fashionable  envy  cope, 
And  with  good  will  urge  through  the  glad  routine; 
Had  raged  all  trails,  terrestrial  and  marine; 
But  now  defaced  with  Mirth's  inclement  kiss, 
Craved  rest's  dear  Spring  to  key  life's  branch  with  green, 
And  freshen  with  new  sap  things  now  amiss. 
Pale-mouthed  from  scores  of  teas  and  more  cotillions, 
Eye-languid  with  their  goldens  and  vermilions, 
Staled  •with  a  thousand  suppers,  fagged  with  wit, 
Tamed  with  the  light  in  parlors  and  pavilions, 
Dancing  on  valor,  dining  on  her  grit, 
At  last  her  hundred  pounds  of  girl  gave  o'er, 
With  scarce  the  will  to  walk  across  the  floor. 


10  JMmflam,  &nwtu  C&trl. 

Then  from  life's  frolic  Flimflam  took  to  quiet, 

Was  good  in  all  things  and  in  nothing  bad, 

Soliloquized  upon  a  stingy  diet, 

Forsook  the  styles  and  waved  off  every  fad. 

In  foam  of  thready  laces  thinly  clad, 

She  kept  her  room,  in  whose  entire  seclusion, 

Friends  might  not  cheer  nor  family  make  her  mad, 

Or  of  the  outside  bring  a  least  allusion. 

A  cup  of  milk,  a  drouthy  screed  of  toast 

Were  now  her  lot  from  oysters  to  the  roast; 

To  say  naught  of  the  missing  courses  after, 

With  which  the  doughty  diner  aye  is  dosed. 

Nor  might  she  smile  or  be  addressed  with  laughter, 

Or  even  think  of  that  neath  mistletoes 

Which  oft  before  she  did  beneath  the  rose. 

When  of  her  fat  physician  she  inquired, 
"May  I  along  the  sun-beamed  sidewalk  stroll?'' 
He  budged  and,  as  he  learnedly  perspired, 
Shunned  the  idea  from  the  depths  of  his  soul. 
"May  I,"  she  larked  again,  "stand  on  parole 
And  watch  the  passers  at  the  streetside  fence?" 
"My  dear,"  he  answered,  "have  some  self-control: 
You  must  not  move  nor  figure  moving  hence." 
"Oh,  let  me  read  the  newspape,"  she  entreated. 
"My  whole  plan  then,"  said  he,  "would  be  defeated." 
"Some  careless  chat  allow  me,"  she  implored. 
"You  must  have  absolute  rest,"  he  repeated. 
"Must  I  not  think?"  she  cried;  and  "No!"  he  roared. 
"I'd  like  to  write,"  she  grumbled,  "some  light  fiction." 
"Oh,  that  you  may,"  quoth  he,  "without  restriction." 


So,  in  her  bedroom  under  six  months'  sentence 

Of  her  prescriber,  firmly  to  abstain 

From  sound  and  color,  and,  in  pale  repentance, 

Bar  the  vocations  of  the  heart  and  brain, 

Flimflam,  becoming  roomed  and  quite  inane, 

Wrote,  for  an  editor,  a  tale  of  love, 

Wherein  the  villain,  Ralph,  shot  out  his  brain, 

And  left  the  hero  cooing  with  his  dove. 

The  tale  was  manuscripted,  bought  and  printed: 

And  in  it  much  of  future  power  hinted; 

The  plot  was  dashing,  from  a  rest-cure  view, 

And  thrillingly  with  local  color  tinted. 

Urged  by  success  and  by  the  doctor,  who 

Wished  mental  truce  maintained,  she  wrote  a  book, 

Which  by  the  ears  the  reading  public  took. 

What  though  the  public  has  resilient  ears, 

Which  turn  to  every  moo  or  bark  or  boo, 

This  genius  made  them  jury  of  her  peers, 

And  for  a  fame  among  them  came  to  sue. 

And  so  we  gave  our  graces  as  we  do 

Whenever  wealth  and  woman's  beauty  claim  us; 

And  Flimflam  woke  one  morn  with  cool  halloo 

To  find  her  nom  de  plume  becoming  famous. 

To  what  new  glories  was  our  heiress  put: 

Praise  at  each  hand  and  flatterers  at  each  foot, 

Save  where  occasional  critic  chid  her  work, 

Showing  a  heart  as  black  and  dry  as  soot. 

Praise  she  would  take  and  honest  blame  not  shirk; 

But  when  black-hearted,  heartless  men  reviled  her, 

They  did  not  pain  and  yet  somehow  they  riled  her. 


12  JTlimflam.  £nrirtii  (Sirl. 

But  Flimflam  was  an  aimless,  amiable  maid, 
Whose  anger  lived  no  longer  than  a  laugh, 
And  with  a  pious  reticence  obeyed 
Fame's  law,  its  kisses  took  and  eke  its  chaff. 
Yet  it  was  woe  to  see  some  numbskull  calf 
Pour  forth  his  ignorance  and  basely  hint 
One  half  her  book  unfit  to  read,  and  half, 
Though  fairly  readable,  unfit  to  print. 
Then  envious  friends  did  reinforce  the  strife 
And  give  her  book  the  bludgeon  and  the  knife: 
It  had  no  tone,  its  characters  no  air; 
Some  said  the  whole  book  was  untrue  to  life. 
Flimflam,  like  Caesar,  thought  all  battles  fair, 
And  as  to  show  how  much  of  life  she  knew, 
Thought  for  a  moment;  then  to  poesy  flew. 

One  blue  vein  throbbed  upon  her  lissome  throat; 
She  muttered  something  which  I  need  not  quote. 
And  then,  with  soul  from  hate  or  grief  remote, 
Without  a  memorandum,  sketch  or  note, 
She  sat  her  at  her  escrutaire  and  wrote. 


flimflam,  0umtu  (girl. 


THE:  DISTRESS!  NO  VICISSITU  DEIS 
OF  A  LADY  IN  SKY-HIGH  SOCIEITY 

BY 

BEATRICE:  VAN   SLOPE: 

A   HE  and  a  she  were  mock-married  one  Fall 

By  a  hand-me-down  monk  at  a  masquerade  ball; 
And  living  adroitly  a  year  and  a  quarter, 
Were  blessed  in  that  time  with  a  son  and  a  daughter. 
Their  marital  duties  thus  more  than  .fulfilled, 
The  dame  kangarooed  to  the  stage,  though  unskilled 
In  the  drama  or  e'en  in  the  part  she  was  billed. 
But,  knowing  the  programmers  like  to  be  thrilled, 
She  proceeded,  as  her  introductory  course 
In  the  technic  of  acting,  to  get  a  divorce. 
But  when  her  complaint  had  been  heard  by  the  judge, 
That  proud-bellied  lord  of  the  law  exclaimed  "Fudge! 
Great  gall  of  Galanthus!     By  gracious!     By  Jeeminy! 
Of  causes  for  cutting  the  ties  1  don't  see  many, 
Not  many,  and  I'll  be  a  son  of  a  gun 
If  of  all  your  base  charges  you've  proven  a  one." 
Then,  mere  by  mistake,  plaintiff  slipt  a  wee  wink; 
It  caught  the  Court's  eye  and  it  made  the  judge  think. 
What  followed  instanter:  decree  of  divorce 
And  all  the  allowances  law  could  enforce, 
Late  suppers,  a  marriage,  more  scandal,  some  weeping, 
Vile  rumors  and  fits  of  hysterics  in  keeping; 
And  what  with  divorce  and  appeals  intermingled, 
She  hardly  knew  if  she  was  married  or  singled. 
And  her  husband,  the  judge,  with  his  hair  and  his  wig  amuss, 
Said,  "My  dear,  if  your  case  is  reversed,  you're  polygamous." 
And  so,  to  escape  those  annoying  appeals 
In  which  she  was  tangled  from  earrings  to  heels. 
Her  physician  informally  hinted  elopement; 
She  answered  him  "Yep/'  for  she  knew  not  what  "nope"  meant. 


14 


Jffltmflam. 


(girl. 


From  pleasure  to  escapade,  fancy  to  folly, 

She  wended,  like  Zaza,  and  finally  —  golly! 

As  wife  of  a  bald-headed  real-estate  man, 

With  the  best  of  champagners  now  flutters  her  fan. 

And  though  this  sad  tale  will  affright  and  appal,  I  know, 

Don't  think  it  too  strong,  for  I  have  not  told  all  I  know. 


JMmflam,  &nwtu  (girl.  15 

r"PHIS  bright-eyed  joculator  then  forsook 
*     Her  cure,  to  try  effects  with  foe  and  friend, 
Hilariously  to  blot  the  blushes  strook 
By  her  bad  rhyme,  and  twit  them  to  the  end. 
Loud  howled  the  stately  dames  to  reprehend 
The  rude  insulter  of  their  peccadilloes 
And  quash  the  French-gilt  fairy  who  had  penned 
The  thorny  words  upon  their  rosy  pillows. 
Flimflam  beheld  the  skirty  tempest  draw 
Round  her  poetic  bang  upon  the  jaw, 
And  laughed  from  pit  to  dome,  (rude,  I  admit) 
Lampooned  their  tears,  and  also  muttered  "pshaw!" 
And  they,  like  cheap  lead-pencils,  showed  their  grit, 
Out-bawled  her  song  and,  having  noised  their  places, 
Sniffed  through  the  nostrilled  air-holes  of  their  faces. 

You  may  remember  how  your  sire  would  spank 
At  your  infernal  regions  long  ago; 
Then,  granting  habeas  corpus,  calmly  rank 
His  anguish  more  than  that  he  did  bestow. 
Some  such  reactionary,  pious  woe 
'Gan  creep  in  Flimflam's  ever-whispering  breast; 
For,  having  caused  her  censors'  tears  to  flow, 
She  downed  and  wept  as  much  as  all  the  rest. 
Fastidious  maid,  most  exquisite  in  moving, 
Too  dreamy  for  a  wakeful  world's  reproving, 
Too  mild  for  hate,  too  sweet  for  bitter  quarrel; 
Asked  the  Great  Witness  of  her  soul  behooving 
God  to  inquire  why  fame  withheld  the  laurel; 
And  fools  who  found  her  poems  uncelestial, 
Were  studied  and  found  plenteously  bestial. 


10  JUmfiaw.  fcurwtij 

'Twas  when  the  branches,  visited  by  May. 
Put  on  their  springstyle  vestiture  of  green, 
That  Flimflam  garbed  her  secret  soul  in  gray 
And  sang  a  love-song  to  an  absent  mien, 
Great  California's  greatest  magazine 
Offered  a  prize  for  a  short  poem  found 
Not  harmful  to  the  state,  nor  yet  obscene. 
Nor  prejudicial  judged  on  any  ground. 
This  magazine,  "The  Sunstroke"  styled,  was  one 
Given  its  name  in  honor  of  the  sun, 
Because  the  sun,  by  setting,  made  us  great, 
Ne'er  setting  elsewhere  save  in  jest  or  fun, 
While  nobly  here  in  this,  the  "Sunset  State." 
So  have  the  poets  in  their  poems  said  it, 
And  given  California  all  the  credit. 

To  this  fair  competition  Flimflam  bent, 

For  that  her  heart  was  in  a  mighty  trance, 

And  lacked  in  living  all  that  living  meant, 

As,  dancing,  lacked  the  spirit  of  the  dance. 

Thus  did  her  love,  which  found  no  equal  glance, 

Take  at  its  window-panes  a  baleful  station, 

And  dream  that  love,  now  lost  in  love's  mischance 

Being  writ,  might  purchase  wistful  approbation. 

The  hue  and  composition  of  her  heart, 

Made  great  with  energies  engaged  apart, 

Had  poured  the  crimson  deluge  to  her  ) train. 

And  there  escaped  in  fantasies  of  art. 

So  did  her  stately  passion  humbly  deign 

To  sip  the  praise  of  fools  and  bid  them  shove 

A  drink  to  match  the  drink  <>f  foolish  love. 


JWmflaut,  ftirtetg  CitrL  IT 


LOVEl-CH  ANT 

BY 
BEATRICE    VAN    SLOPE 


"TWAS  in  the  dreaming  age: 

I  sang  among  the  flowers 
And  walked  a  scenic  stage 

Where  dream-birds  toned  the  bowers, 
And  far-seen  windows  gleamed  in  alien  towers, 
And  love  threw  down  its  gage. 

1  felt  within  my  soul 

The  presage  of  a  thought, 

Which  negligently  stole— 

Though  guardedly  'twas  fought— 
Into  a  peril-place  of  songs  and  aught, 

Beyond  my  young  control. 

Brightly  the  years  bestrew 

The  ornaments  of  Spring; 
Soft  as  sweet,  sweet  as  new, 

(And  flowers  it  did  bring) 
Came  the  great  untranslated  happening 
Which  was  a  dream  of  you. 

My  dream  was  of  a  god; 

And  yet  the  dream  was  you. 
I  saw  the  ambrosial  sod, 

Besprent  with  grass-borne  dew, 
Bear  your  soft  living  marble  veined  with  blue, 
And  shimmer  as  you  trod. 


IS  jnunflam.  &iiriH0  dirl. 

High-hung  with  beamy  charms, 
The  scene  grew  large  and  bright 

And  echoed  love's  alarms, 

For,  oh,  I  did  invite 
The  weird  clasp  of  a  continent  of  light 

With  -superhuman  arms. 

The  apparition  grew, 

Its  brow  with  roses  bound, 

Distilling  attar-dew, 

Oh  beauty  stilling  sound! 
Outshone  the  shining  evidence  around 

The  celestial  interview. 

Oh,  black  Stymphalian  birds, 
That  flutter  full  of  sorrow 

And  carry  secret  words 

From  twilight  unto  morrow, 
Haunt  not  his  hill  nor  droop  above  his  farrow, 

The  choicest  of  the  herds. 

Farewell!    The  great  are  lonely; 

Go  thy  inferior  ways. 
Let  me  consider  only 

My  vacant  house  of  days. 
Or  queenly  sit  where  tragic  wisdom  plays 

To  thrones  whose  queens  are  thronely. 

You  came  but  to  depart; 

So  let  my  own  soul  go. 
Yet  with  your  lowly  art, 

You  made  the  heavens  glow; 
And  with  your  heedless  arm  imposed  the  blow 
That  broke  a  poet's  heart. 


JFUmflam.  £nnrtu  0>ir I.  10 


'"PHIS  lacrimose  lay, 
*     Her  fruition  of  sighs, 
A  delight  in  its  way, 
But  the  ruth  of  her  eyes, 
Was  writ  in  a  day 
And  despatched  to  the  wise 
Referees  of  the  fray. 
And  that  learned  assize 
Read  the  poem,  and  they, 
Without  guile  or  disguise, 
Allowed  it  entree 
In  compete  for  the  prize 
And  said  in  a  way 
It  was  hard  to  despise, 
Yet  was  not  raisonne 
A  la  mode  in  their  eyes, 
As  it  did  not  portray, 
With  whyes  and  therebyes, 
Our  State  and  the  lay 
Of  its  mountains  or  bay 
Or  its  prunes  or  the  size 
Of  the  last  crop  of  hay. 

As  may  you  surmise, 
Flimflam  said  "Good  day," 
Wiped  a  beam  from  her  eyes, 
And  'tis  needless  to  say, 
She  had  not  won  the  prize. 


flimflam.  $umtu  <£trL 


Her  poem  was  not  badly  written  or  dull  or 
Without  showing  signs  of  a  talented  skull  or 
An  art  that  gave  promise  of  bettering  soon; 
But  it  took  not  the  cake  nor  captured  the  cruller, 
Oh,  it  lured  not  the  guerdon,  it  brought  her  no  boon, 
Not  for  want  of  strong  lines  but  it  lacked  local  color. 

List,  lovers  of  song:  here  appeareth  the  pome 
That  worked  on  the  judges  and  brought  the  prize  home 
(It  will  work  on  you  also,  though  not  in  that  way.) 
It  was  writ  in  the  gloaming,  it's  filled  up  with  gloam 
And  the  true  divine  flatulence  flavors  the  lay; 
Howe'er  let  the  troubadour  blow  his  own  foam: 


Jfflimflam,  £>flru»tg  (girl. 


CALIFORNIAN  HYMN  TO  THE  SUN 

Q  WEST-BOUND  sun,  I  importune, 
^-^   As  you  descend  Sierra's  tops, 
Shine  on  my  grape  and  light  my  prune, 
Illuminate  my  growing  crops. 

Scowl  on  the  streams  of  wicked  East, 
But  smile  on  Sacramento's  trout; 

And  when  your  working  hours  are  ceased, 
Set  by  the  Southern  Pacific  Route. 

O  sunset,  dear  to  every  breast, 

Thou'rtlike  our  fields  of  well-known  poppies, 
Making  our  setting  sun  the  best, 

And  Eastern  sunsets  only  copies. 

0  climate-maker  of  our  zone, 

The  greatest  name  at  my  behest 

1  give  you:  henceforth  be  you  known 

As  Native  Sun  of  the  Golden  West. 


22 


|  J  PON  the  morrow,  when  the  elegant  sun 

S^   With  ready  beam  o'er  the  blue  mountain  blinked, 

Flimflam  upon  the  day  the  start  had  won. 

Soon  to  her  ink-well's  curb  the  pen  was  brinked; 

She  stirred  the  inky  depths  of  Fame's  precinct; 

Thought  after  thought  in  fancy's  rhythm  was  linked: 

And  she  prognosticating:  "I'll  be  kinked, 

If,  when  I've  done,  these  chaps  are  not  extinct." 


3FUuiflam. 


POETS   AND   CRITICS 

BY 

BEATRICE   VAN    SLOPE 


r\  FAME,  lift  up  thine  eyes  to  this  devotion, 

From  far  East  where  thy  eastern  tresses  lave 
Upon  the  morning  on  Columbo's  ocean 

To  where  thy  locks  droop  in  Balboa's  wave- 
Where  western  fogs  obscure  the  poet's  flight, 
Glance,  thou  with  eyes  of  one  almighty  blast  of  light. 

1  know  too  many  bards  have  coarsely  fed 

Where  the  Pierian  fount  once  filled  the  poet; 
Drained  is  that  channel  now:  a  maid  may  tread 

Where  once  it  glistered  and  not  get  her  toe  wet. 
Yet  critics  they  have  lost  the  doge  to  burn  us 
Since  they,  for  inspiration,  drank  up  Lake  Avernus. 

Your  busy  poet  in  a  year  will  yearn 

With  ninety-nine  emotions  in  his  midst, 

With  waxless  pang,  soul-quake  and  anguish  burn 
For  ninnygirls  who  never  did  but  udidst," 

And  throbbing  part  for  variegated  women, 
Or  praise  of  pomp  or  pinhole,  heaven  or  persimmon.' 

Whereat  the  critic,  anxious  to  effuse. 

Sees  butterfly-wings  on  the  pallid  moth; 
Or,  moody,  foams  at  mouth,  and  then  shampoos 

His  hair  with  all  the  hydrophobic  froth 
Ere  he  vouchsafes  to  quash  a  little  verse, 
And  prove  his  own  transcendant  knowledge  with  a  curse. 


24  JFUmflam,  gwirtg  (girl. 


Hoarse  Jacobs  braying  at  hush  lullabies 

And  wrestling  with  the  angels  of  great  thought 

And  laughing  greedily  when  Psyche  sighs, 

And,  knowing  not  the  meaning,  call  it  naught, 

You  have  replaced  the  genius  with  the  jack; 
Go  to  remorse's  knee  and  take  your  paddywhack. 

A  town  coerced  with  alien  ignorance, 

Commercial  tricksters,  wealth's  perfidious  tribe, 
Killers  of  Truth,  preventers  of  romance,  — 

Has  made  its  art  the  creature  of  their  bribe, 
Depicted  squash,  to  please  their  occupations, 
And  roasts-of-beef  to  draw  their  slow  imaginations. 

To  feed  these  red-necked  caterers  with  art 

That  bears  some  rude  resemblance  to  the  real, 

Bought  scribes  have  glorified  the  brokers'  mart 

And  made  its  commerce  mean  their  time's  ideal, 

Flattered  the  fuddled  merchant  at  his  club, 
Pictured  his  groceries  and  versified  his  grub. 

Foul  clerks  of  wealth  their  sophistries  unbowel, 
And  mix  opinions  with  their  alcoholics; 

Crowned  by  the  Trust  and  sceptered  with  a  trowel, 
They  fill  the  world's  book  with  their  hyperbolics, 

Gurgle  with  mirth  above  the  winy  glass, 
For  wine  lends  wit  to  him  who  else  would  be  an  ass. 

Debased  in  love,  ashamed  at  innocence, 

They  hang  the  figleaf  to  the  infant's  hips, 

Invite  the  famous  and  revile  them  hence, 

And  praise  the  climate  round  the  singer's  lips, 

Go  down  the  line  and  spit  in  each  spittoon, 
And  raise  the  art  of  criticism  at  each  saloon. 


flimflam,  &ori*tg  CJirl.  25 

The  poet  scarce  opines  that  poetry 

Is  quite  a  bloodless  battle,  —  fool  unwary— 

When  literary  guns  knock  his  debris 
Into  the  thirty-first  of  February; 

For  on  the  cohorts  of  new  song  still  wreak 
The  unadmired  their  vengeance  from  their  mountain  pique. 

By  these  no  poetry  is  writ  by  rule, 

No  rule  correct  or  line  to  be  admired, 
Whose  thread  unwinds  not  from  a  classic  spool 

Of  ancient  make  and  patent  long  expired. 
Watchers  behind  their  low,  familiar  fence, 
To  them  each  stranger  is  a  peril  in  suspence. 

Not  easily  new  law  the  wrong  supplants; 

Loath  is  mankind  relinquishing  dead  splendors: 
When  men  have  lost  the  art  of  wearing  pants, 

With  smiles  of  pride  they  yet  will  wear  suspenders; 
Yet  unafraid,  peculiarly,  great  minds 
Will  make  their  laws  at  variance  with  littler  kinds. 

One  jester,  surfeit  in  his  own  conceit, 

Cynic  by  trade  and  by  the  column  sour, 
When  shown  a  peacock,  moans,  ''What  ugly  feet!" 

And,  with  a  sneer,  he  feels  like  Schopenhauer. 
The  cat  feels  like  the  tiger:  what  is  same 
Honors  the  cat;  their  difference  is  the  tiger's  fame. 

With  scarce  the  flesh  to  keep  his  bones  from  rattling, 

A  teardrop  on  the  tip  of  his  blue  nose, 
Fond  midnight  rinds  him  with  fond  poesy  battling, 

Impeaching  sweet-sung  words  in  wretched  prose. 
He  writes:   (forgetting  that  he  praised  it  once) 
"'Tuns  \\-ritlen  by  a  duffer  to  amuse  a  dunce." 


26  Jfflunfiam.  fcurirtg  ®irl. 

From  criticism  to  libel  is  no  plunge: 

A  smirk  of  satire  he  must  not  omit. 
And  to  the  skull  that  clasps  his  mental  sponge, 

He  lifts  his  thumb  and  strikes  a  spark  of  wit; 
Laughs  jocularly  as  if  slopping  soup; 
Uncorks  the  guffaws  of  a  public  prone  to  whoop. 

Alas  poor  pessimist!     Sage  sophomoric, 

That  scratches  his  Thesaurus  for  a  thought! 

Should  someone  pump  him  full  of  paregoric, 
We  soon  would  have  an  optimist  or  naught, 

That  would  not  lift  from  tomes  of  melancholy, 
Twist  up  and  write  a  plagiarism  on  human  folly. 

And  many  a  weekly  rag  its  critic  pays, 

Tatterdemalions  of  the  ink  brigade, 
Who  think  their  satire  vitriol  that  slays, 

That  satire  which  is  weak  as  lemonade. 
Logic?    They  would  not  touch  that  pointed  tool; 
For  logic  is  an  instrument  to  wound  a  fool. 

Discriminations  nice  they  oft  attempt, 

With  dingy  finger  over  greatness  poking: 

The  untamed  lion  is  to  them  unkempt; 

Their  solemn  ignorance,  by  wisely  joking, 

Conceals  itself  and  simpers  unconfessed 
Beneath  a  coward  ambiguity  of  jest. 

They  know  the  clouds  are  better  than  the  sky; 

Blame  the  expression  ere  they  praise  the  face; 
Too  low  the  bottom  and  the  top  too  high, 

Although  the  middle  seems  in  proper  place. 
So  can  the  flippant,  filibustering  boozer 
Knock  holes  in  cherries  and  steam  through  them  in  a  cruiser. 


ifli  in  flam.  j$nriFtti  (Sirl. 


They  say:  "Too  young  to  think,  too  old  to  learn, 
This  poet  grates  upon  my  pia  mater." 

Sweethearts,  know  that  the  poetry  you  spurn 

Grates  on  your  prose  because  the  verse  is  greater. 

Too  easy  to  be  jarred,  you  are  too  nice: 
There's  more  to  virtue  than  the  virtue  shocked  at  vice. 

Now,  having  splintered  his  disgust  on  merit, 

It  might  be  thought  a  cynic  of  some  pride 
Attacking  misbehavior,  would  not  spare  it, 

And  when  an  ignoramus  unsupplied 
With  equilibrium,  attempts  to  soar, 
Drag  him  to  earth  and  let  him  live  no  more. 

Not  so:  see  how  some  pumpkin-headed  fop, 

Without  the  passion  that  might  warm  the  chill 

From  his  cold  intellect,  nor,  in  his  top, 
The  intellect  to  simulate  a  thrill 

Of  passion  —  Gee!    Beneath  his  bready  novel, 
Reviewers,  gorged  with  platitudinous  praise,  will  grovel. 

They  say:  "This  author  knows  his  native  ground; 

To  him  no  secret  is  the  plow-boy's  mood; 
His  knowledge  of  sunbonnets  is  profound; 

His  characters  are  moral  and  subdued; 
With  every  page,  the  plot"  (thick  always)  "thickens; 
Egads,  he  knocks  the  very  Balzac  out  of  Dickens!" 

Thus  not  all  praise  will  at  all  greatness  light: 

Their  brains  must  feel  at  home  or  else  are  dumb, 

Like  those  peculiar  matches  which  ignite 

Only  against  the  box  in  which  they  come. 

Yet  what  their  precious  praise  will  not  set  fire 
Their  lack  of  understanding  scorches  in  their  ire. 


28  #litttflmn.  &nnrt£  diri. 

To  genius  they  prefer  some  Tom  Thumb's  terrors; 

The  genuine  they  banish  for  the  sham. 
A  platitude  set  with  grammatic  errors 

Gleams  to  their  bogus  brains  an  epigram. 
A  sooty  chimney  on  a  rainy  night 
Shines  to  their  owlish  eyeballs  like  a  ray  of  light. 

And  thus  the  pigeon-toed  archsatirist. 

Preparing  for  a  long  ironic  frolic, 
Goes  aching  to  his  task  and  gives  a  twist 

That  makes  his  precinct  seem  the  country's  colic. 
And  futures  find  on  Poesy's  cheek  his  blame 
Cut  black,  a  beauty-patch  of  everlasting  shame. 


Sflimflam,  g>oratB  (girl. 


LAST"   WISHES 

BY 

BEATRICE:  VAN  SLOPE 


'THIS  exquisite  malady  that  steals  my  brain, 

The  master-current  of  my  livelong  thought, 
Unlinks  my  life  and  breaks  the  spirit-chain 

That  once  with  animated  flesh  was  fraught. 
How  I  unwish  the  things  that  once  I  wished! 

And  think  of  seasons  flooded  with  false  tides, 
Upon  whose  wave  dead  infamies  are  fished, 

As  the  lewd  gondola  to  pleasure  glides. 

Nay,  'tis  iniquitous  to  ban  those  joys 

Which  sped  their  best  to  make  me  laugh  with  them, 
Hard  laughter  which  a  nervous  world  employs 

To  advertise  it,  stuck  with  gold  and  gem. 
Yet,  sitting  in  the  afterward  of  life  — 

O  afterward  of  joy  in  forward  years!  — 
I  think  my  pleasure  was  with  wish  at  strife 

Which  now  against  my  wishing  disappears. 

I'd  like  the  sunshine,  were  it  not  so  bright. 

I'd  like  to  ramble  were  I  not  so  weary. 
Food  I  would  care  for  had  I  appetite, 

And  books  endear  me  were  they  not  so  dreary. 
Artists  would  please  me  if  they  had  more  art; 

Old  women  soothe  were  I  a  gossip-monger; 
Wise  men  delight  me  if  they  had  more  heart; 

And  fools  would  be  my  passion  were  I  younger. 


30  JFUmflam,  gwtrtg  <8irl. 

I'd  like  the  scenery,  were  I  a  bird. 

I'd  crave  the  rose  were  I  a  honeybee; 
Enjoy  a  spelling-match,  if  a  long  word; 

Dote  on  a  dozen  were  I  four  times  three. 
With  every  thrilling  fool  I  would  concur, 

Had  I  but  half  his  inference  of  brains. 
Love  for  mine  enemy  I'd  not  defer, 

Saving  for  fear  he'd  love  me  for  my  pains. 

Poems  allure  me  when  they  break  my  spell; 

And  pictures  when  the  painter  limns  with  might. 
Music  I  love,  when  it  is  musicked  well 

And  the  musician's  face  is  out  of  sight. 
Birds  would  induce  me  as  they  wing  the  blue, 

Were  I  one  of  their  airy  caravan. 
And  man  would  suit  me,  did  the  right  one  sue; 

And  women  I  would  love  were  I  a  man. 

Thus  it  beseems  no  thing  is  perfect  for  me, 

No  person  adequate  to  wishing  power, 
No  tempest  violent  when  my  thoughts  are  stormy, 

No  lily  equal  when  I  wish  a  flower. 
Yet  I  have  seemed  enjoyable  and  careless, 

And  made  the  light  heart  laugh,  the  fool  seem  great. 
A  clown  I  lived,  and,  like  a  clown,  die  heirless 

Of  thought  or  child  or  good  to  emulate. 


JFltmfiam,  &nmtu  (BtrL  31 


WEALTH 

BY 

BEATRICE   VAN    SLOPE 

(~)H,  why  was  I  born  on  the  summit  of  riches, 

With  nothing  above  but  impossible  sky, 
While  the  brooklet  below,  in  its  bright-winding  ditches, 

Goes  into  the  woodland  and  leaves  my  hill  dry. 

In  the  acres  spread  out  as  my  earthy  foundation, 
The  farm-girl  sings  low  by  the  lake  her  desire. 

Lost,  lost  to  my  life  is  that  loved  inspiration 

That  flows  through  hope's  garden  to  slake  the  soul's  fire. 

Why  have  I  not  lived  where  the  yearner,  while  praying, 
Comprehends  that  the  world  can  reply  to  her  prayer, 

And  fancy  can  fly  to  the  clouds  overswaying 

While  weariness  sleeps  at  the  foot  of  the  stair. 

Here  in  my  bright  castle,  whose  implements  golden 
Were  given  unasked,  I  am  paying  Hell's  price. 

With  nothing  to  clasp  save  the  shapes  oft  beholden, 
And  nothing  to  study  in  pleasure  but  vice. 


PS  35/9 
0?   F5 


NUMBERS  OF  THE  FLAME  SERIES  ISSUED. 

1.  The  Divine  Question,        by  Lionel  Josaph are 

2.  The  Humpback,  the  Cripple 

and  the  One-Eyed  Man,         by  Lioml  Josaphare 

3.  A  Tale  of  a  Town, 

4.  Flimflam,  Society  Girl,       "       "  " 

and  ^Beatrice  l^an  Slope 


GENERAL 


.  BERKELEY 


459869 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


